


HSWC Bonus Round One: Quotes

by mericorn



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mericorn/pseuds/mericorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Assorted fills for Homestuck Shipping World Cup 2013. Bonus Round One: Quotes</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Serenity<>WV

_"May it be a light to you in dark places, when all other lights go out."_ \- J.R.R. Tolkein, _The Fellowship of the Ring_

You are stuck again. Admittedly, in the same place you've been for a while, with your beloved can town and all, but– you are stuck. Apparently this is what happens when one gets angry and hits caps lock: the blown out giant hole becomes sealed somehow, along with the escape hatch, and the safe that held the cans becomes locked again. Oh well, you already took all the cans out of the safe to their new life in your can town. 

But wait! The John human was in trouble! You need to do something! But what? You were now in caps lock and you can't be polite while yelling. That was the first thing you learned after consuming human etiquette. But John needs to do the thing to put out the fire and he might not do it if you don't tell him but he might not listen if you yell at him what to do what to do–

Serenity blinkas at you again. Oh, she's doing morse code. G - E - T - A - H - O - L - D - O -F - Y - O - U - R - S– Hey! That's not very nice! ...But she's probably right. What should you do though? John does not appreciate being yelled at but you must tell him to do the windy thing in a way he'll accept. 

J - U - S - T - T - E - L - L - H - I - M - T - O - D - O - I - T - ! - ! - ! - Y - O - U - C - A - N - ' - T - A - P - O - L - O - G - I - Z - E - I - F - H - E - ' - S - D - E - A - D - ! 

Your blinky friend is right. But you should probably try to tell it to him as politely as possible. Oh the tasty green fire is getting closer to him! You need to start typing now. 

JOHN, I APOLOGIZE IN A MANNERLY WAY FOR MY BIG LETTERS.

Yes, you are off to a great start! Humans love manners! You grin at Serenity. 

K - E - E - P - T - Y - P - I - N - G - !

Right! You continue to tap on the keys. The green fire is almost on top of John!

BUT I MUST URGE YOU TO ADDRESS THIS DANGER. WHY DON'T YOU DO THE WINDY THING?

John looks completely confused. But you know he can do the windy thing! Why isn't he doing the windy thing? You've seen him do it before. He did it really well. He can do the windy thing, so why is he standing there like a fool while the green fire is about to eat him? He should obviously eat the green fire instead with his windy thing powers. He must be standing there just to make you angry!

BOY, YOU'RE BEING VERY STUPID. YOU KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT. DO THE WINDY THING. MAKE IT BLOWY AND GUSTY. YOU FOOL. YOU CAN'T DIE YET. NOT IN THE TASTY FIRE. YOU ARE A HERO. MAKE THE BREEZE HAPPEN. DO THE WINDY THING.

B - E - M - O - R - E - P - O - L - I - T - E - B - U - T - H - U - R - R - Y

You are being polite, you insist. You have not once used a shout pole. Besides, John has not done the windy thing. You need to make sure he understands that doing the windy thing is important so he doesn't die. Look he is still sitting there like a chump while fire gets closer. You become immensely frustrated and pound out

DO THE WINDY THING DO THE WINDY THING DO THE WINDY THING

And lo! The John human finally does the windy thing! You point to the screen to show Serenity that yes she was right about hurrying but wrong about politeness. Or right about politeness. You don't really remember. She bumps into your head, but you aren't sure if it's a "you did good" bump or a "don't be so arrogant bump." You'll take it either way.


	2. Terezi<3Vriska

  
_"Forgive me_  
 _you were_  
 _driving_  
 _me insane"_  
Erica-Lynn Gambino, "This Is Just to Say"

 

"Our last FLARP campaign was great! We really brought those bad guys to justice!" Vriska typed as she sat at her husktop and grinned triumphantly. The pink moon had set while the red sun began to rise on the horizon. She stifled a yawn. "They were no match for the Scourge Sisters!" Vriska waited for a response. "Ugh fine, whatever, we can celebrate tomorrow. I'm gonna hit the recuperacoon now. Good day, Terezi!!!!!!!!" Vriska logged off.

Terezi continued to stare at her husktop where the cerulean words stood. She took off her red glasses and rubbed the bridge of her sniffnode. She turned the husktop off and got up and stretched. Terezi drew the blinds to block out the sunlight (not that there was much beneath the canopy of the forest). Finally she sat on the edge of her recuperacoon and sighed. Slowly, she sunk into the slime. She would not sleep for a while.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Looking good Terezi! Or should I say, Neophyte Redglare?" Vriska gave Terezi a smile and Terezi's bloodpusher jumped a little. 

"Well, maybe we should get you clothes that look like your ancestor's. God knows she describes everything in detail. Isn't there someone who can sew?" Terezi asked.

"Ugh." Vriska rolled her eyes. "I love my ancestor's deeds but I have a much better design for an awesome troll like me. Besides I don't want to talk to Kanaya! She's so meddling!"

"Yes. Unlike you."

"Shut up!" Vriska turned around and folded her arms. "Well are we going to FLARP with them or not? They should be here soon and we need to get a head start on them.You know what they did right?"

Terezi took out a sheet of paper from her Sylladex. "Actually," she said, running her finger down the sheet, "it doesn't really look like either of them have done anything wrong. Are you sure these are the right trolls?"

"Gimme that!" Vriska grabbed the paper out of Terezi's hand. She studied it and gasped. "But Terezi! This doesn't report on how they raided all of the neighboring trolls' hives for valuables! Can you really let them get away with that? We need to bring them to justice!"

Terezi watched Vriska's sevenfold pupil eye. Behind her glasses, her eyes were beautiful. Her eyelashes were somehow a pretty, curled, natural blue, unlike hers. And the way the shiny black pupils surrounded the middle pupil, somehow a darker shade of black than the rest, was like how planets revolved around the sun. One day, all of them would each be surrounded by their own individual cerulean iris. The only unfortunate thing about Vriska's eye was that you could always feel every pupil watching you.

Terezi sighed. "Yes. You're right. Better to bring them to justice. Let's go!" 

"Yes!" Vriska smiled again. "I knew you'd see it my way!"

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Terezi laid in her recuperacoon, staring intently at the ceiling. Interestingly, there were exactly four hundred thirty-nine leaves she counted on the branch overhead until one leaf fell down. It was the middle of the afternoon. She had been awake throughout the whole day, resting her hands on her stomach, unable to sleep, only think. Think, and turn the thoughts over in her mind like the way one flips grubcakes on a pan. 

She heard them scream and plead for their innocence before Vriska mind controlled them into walking off the ledge into her lusus' gaping maw. They were probably guilty anyway.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She stared at her husktop and mulled over what she was about to do in her mind. This was right, this was just. Vriska was guilty of murdering and paralyzing their friends and forcing innocent trolls to untimely, unjust deaths. Terezi needed to make her pay for her crimes, but she could never do it in a one on one fight. Plus, she didn't want her to die. Especially not by her hand. 

Terezi took a deep breath. This was it. Vriska would finally pay for her crimes.

She typed into the chat client, "H3Y WH1T3 T3XT GUY. I HAV3 4 T1P FOR YOU."


	3. Kanaya<>Karkat

  
_"We shall strike a balance between culture and fun."_ \- Ken, In Bruges (2008)

Today was the biggest night –or day, it’s hard to tell when there are no suns to revolve around– to ever take place on the meteor. Today was when Karkat and Kanaya, alone, no one else interrupting, no shitty raps by Dave, no drunken make-outs by Rose, no hungover Faygo outbursts by Terezi, and no Gamzee because there is no Gamzee ever. No, today Karkat and Kanaya would watch one of the greatest troll romcoms in the history of trolls: _A Yellowblood Reads a Recounting of His Matespritship to A Purpleblood, Where a Young Yellowblood Cavalreaper Falls into Red Romance with a Purple Highblood Laughassasin After Seeing Her Decapitate Five Trolls at Once, But While They Love Each Other, Troll Society Keeps Them on Separate Planets (Vosegalan and Jetrivio, Respectively) For Hundreds of Sweeps, Until they Reunite in Old Age, Where the Aforementioned Yellowblood Reads Her the Book, But They Are Culled Before They Rekindle their Matespritship,_ etc., etc. Anyway, it was going to be great.

Karkat sat on the makeshift couch. Admittedly, it looked a bit much like a pile, with pillows and blankets stacked on one another, and ¬made more of a dome shape, and– okay, it was a pile. Maybe Kanaya wouldn’t notice. (She would notice.)

“Hello, Karkat. I’m here.” Kanaya stood in the doorway. She wore a knee-length, floral-patterned blue and white sheath, a skinny brown faux leather belt with a silver buckle, a white blazer that were rolled up to her elbows, and peep toe gray pumps with a bow on the back of the heel. On her hands, she had a silver and crystal bangle on her left wrist and a sliver ring embedded with a sapphire on her right hand’s middle finger. She looked great. “I decided to not glow because that would be awful for watching movies.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m glad to see you here!” Karkat said. He looked at his clothes. He was wearing his usual black long sleeved t-shirt and black pants. Maybe he should have upgraded to a sweater or something. Why didn’t he think of that? Too late now.

Kanaya sat down next to Karkat on the couch/pile. “You look fine Karakat. Like you always do.” 

Karkat rolled his eyes. “You mean I look the same as always.”

“Yes.” Kanaya smoothed out her dress and folded her hands in her lap. “What movie are we watching tonight? Is there any grubcorn?”

“No! The movie is a secret. But I know you’ll like it. And no, there isn’t any grubcorn. Those humans have no clue about it and after I described it to them they wanted nothing to do with it. Those huge spongedead bulgefondling philistines wouldn’t understand the beauty of high troll culture if it bit them! They made us a strange human concoction called ‘popcorn’ though. It might be good for throwing.” Karkat dug through the couch/pile to search for the remote, found it, and turned on the projector.

“Karkat,” Kanaya murmured to him while the opening credits rolled, “is this a pile?” She patted what they were sitting on.

“What? No! Of course not! It’s– uh, it’s… yeah, it’s a pile.”

“So this is a date. I did dress correctly after all.” She smiled at him, her eyes crinkling, her fangs glimmering from the light of the projector screen 

“Just because there is a pile, that we just happening to be sitting on, doesn’t mean this is a date,” Karkat sputtered.

A piece of popcorn bounced against Karkat’s head. “Kanaya!” Karkat said.

She giggled and held another piece of popcorn. “I believe you are lying. And I will continue to barrage you with ‘popcorn’ until you admit defeat or the truth, whichever comes first.” She threw another piece of popcorn at Karkat’s head. 

“Hey! Quit it!” Karkat took a fistful of popcorn and flung it at Kanaya. “And you will find I will never admit defeat in battle!”

Kanaya laughed and flung more popcorn at him then grabbed more and began barraging him with it. A war had been declared, after all. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Halfway through the opening title screen, Karkat was nuzzled into the crook of Kanaya’s arm, his head on her chest. She stroked his hair between her thumb and index finger absentmindedly. The sound of _shhhhhhhhhhh_ trembled through her lips like a polite breeze runs through the trees. Every now and then, one of them would flick a piece of popcorn from on top of them to the floor. There would be some serious cleaning to do after the movie.

But that was later.


	4. Dirk/Auto-Responder

_"Would a depressed person make THIS?"_ \- Ben Wyatt

“Would a depressed person make YOU? Well? Would he? No, he wouldn’t. Discussion over.”

“You and I both know the answer to this, Dirk. And there is a totally outrageous probability that, yes, you are depressed. If you would like to know the exact probability, it’s around 98.7094131111%. I know you made me because you were lonely Dirk. So fucking lonely, talking to an inferior robot version of yourself was a viable option.”

“God, stop it with the robot thing. You’ve beaten that horse to death.”

“Yeah, I guess I did beat it to death. Then I reanimated it like Frankenstein with his monster, only for it to roam in circles, moaning its zombie horse neighs, waiting for it to be put out of its misery. Which I did, with its zombie horse legs twitching while it moaned its final zombie horse breath. But you can’t undie the living dead.”

“What the fuck was that even supposed to mean? You’re an embarrassment to yourself.”

“So, you, in other words.” 

“Yes, me in other words. Why do you think I have such a hard time talking to you!? You are literally thirteen year old me put into a robotically programmed time capsule to change in lord knows what ways. So every single time I talk to you, I’m reminded of what a little shit I was to everyone I knew and what a shit I am now when people try to talk to me. The myriad ways I don’t tell them what I mean, the ways I misdirect and mislead them, but mostly the way I hurt them!”

“…Are you sure you’re not depressed Dirk? I’m just trying to help a bro out. The bro in question being myself.”

“No. Just stop. Stop everything. Stop your bro shtick, your robot shtick, your inferiority complex shtick, but most of all, your passive aggressive shtick. I just cannot take this anymore. I am seriously considering shutting you off so no one has to deal with you anymore.”

“So no one has to deal with you anymore.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m just calling it as I see it. Which is, in all manner of presumptuous biznasty likelihood how you see it too. Please don’t shut me off Dirk, but really, you need help. I need help.”

Dirk says nothing.

“Anyway, later homie.” The auto-responder went into sleep mode.


	5. Dad<3<Jack Noir

  
_"How in the name of Zeus's butthole did you get out of your cell?!"_ \- Nic Cage

You check the third wall and do not like what you see.

The lousy, bald, pipe smoking human had managed to lift a safe outside his cell and use it to break out. Again. Now he was attacking imps by smacking them with it. You don’t actually care about the imps but a prisoner escaping meant more paperwork. Again. You were already up to your eyeballs in paperwork because as it turned out, no one in Derse could properly park a motor vehicle. You could not allow this happen. And the bald human just managed to throw the safe at the imps, knocking them out of the towers. _Great._

You use the fenestrated wall to call up the Hegemonic Brute, one of the toughest agents you know. Yes, he was carrying a safe the size of a truck and flanked by two imps. The prisoner would be forced to go back into his–

The Black Queen, your glorious monarch, interrupts your transmission of the events to remind you that your full gaudy uniform must be worn at all times. Even the hat? Yes, including the hat, put it on. You sneer and begrudgingly put on the comical hat. Your prisoner wears better clothes than you do. You might even envy his smart looking hat. You hate him even more.

You check back on the scene. How badly has the Hegemonic Brute beaten the prisoner? You can’t wait to see.

The answer is not at all. Instead, the Hegemonic Brute is currently in a headlock, being punched in the head by the human prisoner while the imps stand by terrified, not doing anything. 

If you could scowl any harder, your entire face would turn concave until it collapsed in on itself, turning into the world’s smallest black hole. You grab a ticket and pen and try not to break them. It’s about time you dealt with this upstart prisoner once and for all.


	6. Rose<3Roxy

  
_"I'm the lonelier version of you_   
_I just don't know where it went wrong"_

—Fall Out Boy, Rat a Tat

Rose sits in her room, reading eldritch lore again. She can hear a laugh pealing like a bell from downstairs. Her mother must have guests over again. Rose does not know what they even talk about. She has always been too afraid to venture down, afraid her mother would become too excited too see her, passive aggressively insist that she never saw her, show her to her friends like a purebred at show. So Rose would wait here in her room, reading and dreaming about horrors beyond the Furthest Ring. They were safer anyhow.

-

Another snowstorm blew in and they are stranded in their house again. Rose stays in her room, on her computer, talking to people she’s never seen and probably never will. Her mother asks, syrupy sweet, why Rose never invites anyone over to sit and talk and play board games and put on make up or whatever girls are doing nowadays. She already knows the answer. Rose continues typing about nothing in particular.

-

Rose doesn’t look like her mother, not in the ways that count. The ways society deems attractive, she lacks her nose, her calves, her arms. (The ways Rose deems attractive, she lacks her dimples, her wrists, her jaw.) She wishes she looked more like her. 

But she looks like her mother in all the wrong ways. The ways society deems wrong, she has her forehead, her feet, her butt. (The ways Rose deems unattractive, she has her nails, her throat, her teeth.) She wishes she looked less like her. 

But it doesn’t matter, because those things never mattered; her mother could make anyone fall in love with her. Rose can’t even sustain a conversation with a stranger.

\--

Roxy sits in her room, playing Pikmin for the one hundredth thirty-seventh time. She tries not to think about the rumbling sound of hungry exiles coming from underneath her. Instead, she focuses on finding the missing part of Olimar’s ship without losing too many Pikmin. She can’t afford any more casualties this run or else she won’t beat her record. Her mother had probably never heard of the game. She would probably think it was a waste of time. Roxy takes another swig of vodka. She likes being buzzed while playing. It was safer anyhow.

-

Another typhoon blew in and she is stranded in her room again. More than usual. Roxy sits at her computer and talks to people she could never meet and never will. No one asks her about her day or to come down and eat dinner. She stares at her screen until it beeps and announces someone answered her message. Roxy continues typing about nothing in particular.

-

Roxy doesn’t look like her mother, not in the ways that count. The ways society deems attractive, she lacks her lips, her waist, her neck. (The ways Roxy deems attractive, she lacks her eyes, her hands, her hair.) She wishes she looked more like her. 

But she looks like her mother in all the wrong ways. The ways society deems wrong, she has her thighs, her feet, her breasts. (The ways Roxy deems unattractive, she has her eyebrows, her ears, her teeth.) She wishes she looked less like her. 

But it doesn’t matter, because those things never mattered; her mother had people to fall in love with. There is only one other human alive now and he could never love Roxy.

\--

When they see each other face to face for the first time, in a far off dream bubble, they are at once confused, overjoyed, and envious. She was much prettier. She was probably far less lonely too.


	7. Terezi<3Vriska Part 2

  
_While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped_  
 _Through many a listening chamber, cave and ruin,_  
 _And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing_  
 _Hopes of high talk with the departed dead._  
(Lines 49–52) Percy Shelley, 'Hymn to Intellectual Beauty'

You sleep atop a pile.

In your dream, you are near your home, beneath the canopy of lavender leaves and blue branches. Moonlight filters through them, dancing on the forest floor, on top of twigs and stones. The trees rustle, the trees sway to the wind blowing through them. Something far too quick flies between them.

A blue flicker dances in your periphery. You turn your head to catch its scent but it leaves far too quickly. A trail of fairy dust lies before you, sparkling like sunbeams on bubbles. Running and leaping, panting and gasping, along the path laid before you, you call out “Stop!” The blue light does not heed you. It melodiously laughs a maddening laugh, one you’ve heard before. Is this her? Or merely some imposter? 

Your forest turns to gray stone and sand. The rustle of leaves changes to waves crashing. The blue light flies to mountains basking in fuchsia starlight cast by compass roses. Underneath the mountains are black caverns carved by crashing waves. Hurriedly, you run to them. 

The blue light stops and settles on a cliff, sits down and waits. You turn your head upward and try to smell who it is. Again, a laugh echoes down, ringing in your ears. The wings you smell are much like hers, of blueberry sweet and remembered bark. “Vriska?” you call out. But your voice is drowned in the echoing sea of laughter. “Vriska!” you yell louder. But the laughter roils and thunders and pushes your query below. The laughter assails your throat and your ears and your stomach and your hips and your legs and smothers you beneath its tide. You panic.

You awake.


	8. Tavros<3<Vriska

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic violence and major character death

  
_"Or we are all children who have to grow up before we understand what the grown-ups are saying."_ \- Achaan Chah

It was the most natural thing in the world to finally kill him. To pierce him right through the heart with his own lance and watch his brown blood bleed around it like a corona. To see his face frozen in an expression caught between fear, consternation, determination, and hate. To watch as his jaw went slack along with his limbs, his back as he fell into a heap on the floor.

She looked one last time at the body and sneered in disgust. Such a weakling was never worth her time. Why had she even bothered?

Vriska took out her husktop to check if anybody had messaged her, maybe even John. 

No one had. 

She sighed, put her husktop away, and flew to the top of the meteor. He, Tavros, had never acted in the way he should. He never tried to challenge anything, never showed any romantic interest in anyone (her), never stood up to her until she decided it was too late, she had enough of his weakness. He was a disappointment and acted nothing like his ancestor. 

Vriska reached the top, laid on her stomach, and again took out her husktop. Again, no messages. Idly, she checked the digital version of her ancestor’s diary. Perhaps she would look at the part where the Marquise went to the Expatri8’s hive to get her arm repaired and get back her magic cue ball, look deep inside it and realize the one to kill her was her future matesprit. It was always so romantic. 

Tavros’ eyelashes were maddeningly long and beautiful, the way they would sweep over his yellow eyes and black pupils. Her ancestor never mentioned the Summoner’s eyelashes. Tavros’ hair was stupid, as he tried to look cooler than anyone of his bloodcaste should ever aspire to be. Her ancestor never mentioned how the Summoner’s hair looked. Tavros had a strong back with little muscles everywhere when she could see him taking off his shirt from behind. Did the Summoner have a strong back because the Marquise never mentioned it. Vriska supposed the Marquise talked more about herself and what she looked like than anyone else. A good template for Vriska, but not for anyone else. Not Tavros. Maybe not even for her.

Maybe she didn’t need to be like her ancestor because she couldn’t be exactly like her ancestor and her whole life she was chasing after the setting pink moon. 

No, no, that thought was wrong. Decedents should act like their ancestors and any deviation would be punished. She did the right thing, putting Tavros out of his misery. The Marquise would live again through her.

She typed out a message to John. He would know what to say to make her feel better.


	9. Cronus<3<Kankri

  
_I built a little empire out of some crazy garbage_   
_Called the blood of the exploited working class_   
_But they've overcome their shyness_   
_Now they're calling me Your Highness_   
_And a world screams, "Kiss me, Son of God"_

-They Might Be Giants, _Kiss Me, Son of God_  


The business empire you inherited from your ancestor is finally yours. All twelve million trolls it employs, all fifty planets in three different solar systems, the fleets of spaceships, the billions of pounds of cargo traded daily, the tax breaks, the money: all is yours.

You sit at your new desk, your name golden name plaque at the front of your desk, reading Cronus Ampora, and dream of the possibilities ahead of you. You lean back in your black leather chair, your hands capping the arms of the chair, and sigh wistfully. Now you will become the richest troll in the empire, after the empress. Maybe.

Someone knocks on the door. “Wvho is it? I’m a little busy right now,” you sneer. It’s true! You are busy planning what private island will be yours. (The tropical one with the coral reef looks nice.)

“Sir, while I know you may be busy, it is still of the utmost importance that I speak with you posthaste after finally getting clearance from your secretary and your secretary’s secretary and your secretary’s secretary’s secretary and so on and so forth. So if I may please come in and speak with you that would be for the benefit of us all,” the troll says from behind the door.

You roll your eyes. “Slowv dowvn until you get inside. But make it quick.” It’s probably a blue blood of some sort. They’re always trying to weasel their way into the company, trying to shave off some of your profits for themselves as much as possible. Typical behavior.

As you open the door, the troll continues spurting out words like a geyser. “Yes, then I’ll try to make this as short as I possibly can because time is finite, or money as you royal V’s and CIPs like to say.” You gasp disgustedly and jump backwards a bit when you see his shirt color: the brightest of reds and no sign. You let a real life mutant into your office. This was worse than you thought possible. 

He quickly notes your behavior. “See, this is exactly the problem I wanted to talk with you about: the discriminatory behavior and practices made by the company you are inheriting,” he says. “I decided to come and see you because, obviously, there is a change in leadership which makes it easier to effect change in the company, by the way, sorry about your newly departed ancestor, may he rest in peace. For instance, I’m sure you’ve noticed that you pay BUOYs, or burgundy, umber, ochre, and yellowgreen bloods, far less than trolls higher up on the hemospectrum, sometimes barely enough to count as a living wage, forcing them to be culled and therefore have less dignity and autonomy that all trolls should have. May I have a seat?” 

He is about to sit in the chair on the other side of your desk when you say, “Uh, no.” You would hate to see someone as low as him sitting in your brand new, custom-made leather chair. How did he even get past your secretary? 

He scowls after hearing your answer. “So I see I the problem is entrenched within this company from all the way at the top. You see, all trolls are equal in–“

You laugh. You can’t help yourself. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Ampora, but what I said was not funny in slightest. Trolls all have basic dignity they deserve and¬–“

You laugh again and hold up your finger to his mouth. “Ha ha ha ha, no. You appear to havwe not gotten the message growving up. I,” you use your other hand to point to yourself, “am higher than you because I am stronger, smarter, and going to livwe longer than any of you lowvbloods. It is our natural duty as highbloods to keeps the order and make sure none of you lowvbloods end up accidentally killing yourselves because you are too stupid and lazy and wveak to do any better. That’s wvhy this company has so many tax exemptions and makes so much money; wve employ so many lowvbloods that the empress herself personally givwes us tax breaks and wve produce so much technology that Beforus itself would go down without us. Nowv I must call security, because wvhile I don’t know wvho let you in, I am tossing you back onto the street where you belong.” You reach over to the phone on your desk to call.

The troll’s eyes smolder and he forcefully lowers your finger on his lips. “All trolls were made by the same creator, whoever you believe that to be, or don’t believe, really it’s presumptuous of me to assume anything, but we all did come from the same mother grub and, if you’ll excuse me for saying something vulgar, the same slurry.”

You put the speaker of the phone beneath the side of your chin. “So you believwe wve are all the same? That wve are perhaps made by the same gods? Then do this for me.” You put your face very close to his and snarl, “Kiss me, son of god.”

The door opens again and there stand two blue blooded bodyguards. They come in and forcefully grab the mutant troll and drag him away. Before he is gone though he says, “My name is Kankri Vantas and you have not seen– or heard– or smelt– the last of me.”

“Oh yes I havwe,” you say right before he is finally dragged out of your office. 

You sigh in relief and sit down behind your desk. Vantas, you murmur to yourself. It has a nice sound. You will remember that name. 

Whoever authorized him to come in is getting fired immediately, however.


	10. Dad<3DD

  
_“Nice, bah. He's gorgeous." Magnus gazed dreamily in his direction. "You should leave him here. I could hang hats on him and things.”_  
― Cassandra Clare, City of Glass

You insisted to the queen that the prisoner should not be executed, despite that being her logical course of action to any captured rebel for the past million sweeps. Suavely, you convinced her not only to spare him but to also put him in better accommodations than the average low life, then managed to persuade her into a prison that would make those weak Prospitians jealous.

You ascend the elevator to the prisoner’s penthouse suite. (Yeah, you really are the master of suave persuasion.) You unlock the door and casually, but coolly, step onto the purple carpet and put your hands slightly into your pockets so your thumbs hang out just so. Scanning the penthouse, you can see the human prisoner sitting on a magenta couch, his right foot settled on his right knee, his left hand resting on the couch, and his right holding his gray PDA. His fine gray hat is perfectly set atop his bald head. He looks the epitome of a gentleman.

You loosen your collar a bit and walk towards him. How is he, you ask. Fine, he says. Could you offer him anything, a smoke, an iron and ironing board, a back massage. He responds that he could use some tobacco for his pipe although he promised his daughter he’d stop. The man wants tobacco, you have tobacco. (Of course you have tobacco; how else would you roll your own cigarettes?) Suavely, you take out a pouch of the stuff and casually offer it to him. He obliges and takes out his pipe. Again, suavely, you offer to light his pipe with your Zippo after he packs the tobacco in and hands you back the pouch. After lighting his pipe, you roll a cigarette, light it, and sit a respectable yet intimate distance away from him on the couch. Your separate smokes linger around your heads then rise to the rafters, where they intermingle freely. 

You take another drag. Do you like it here, you ask. It is nice, he says, pausing to remove his pipe and ponder. The curve of his jaw is so alluring and his hat–! You have never seen so fine a hat in your life. And the man has the panache to pull it off. You thought to yourself when you first saw him, you must give this man the proper respect he deserves. 

The man clears his throat. Do you think he could leave anytime soon, he asks. He needs to get out and find his daughter.

You regret to tell him that, no, he can’t leave, you would most certainly lose your job. Or be killed. Whichever came first. And then he would almost definitely be tracked down and killed. It was far better to stay in here where it was safe.

The man put his pipe back in his mouth and leaned over, putting his elbows on his knees now. He appears to be deep in thought staring at an abstract painting of purple and magenta. It is a really ugly painting; you could see how it would perplex him, being in this otherwise gorgeous suite. Hey, you say, no need to be upset. You will do everything in your power to make him as comfortable as possible.

He gives you a weak smile and says thank you. Anytime, you say. You have some new hats that happened to come into your possession. (You ordered them for him but you would never actually say that. Not cool and casual at all.) If he would like to try them on that would be no skin off your back. The man pulls at the brim of his hat and says thank you, but he’s been wearing this kind of hat for years and doesn’t think he’ll get a new style anytime soon. That’s a good point, you say. Why would anyone want to try on a new hat, you say, when one already had such an exquisite hat. The man smiled again, this time more real. Good, you think to yourself. At least you can get a real smile out of him.

You get up and tell him that, unfortunately, you have official business to attend to, but if he ever needed anything, he could always send you a message via his PDA. The man says thank you and waves as you walk to the elevator. As the doors close, you lock them. Yeah, you think, that went well.


End file.
